Conversations With Dead People
by RunawayToaster
Summary: After his almost fatal injury in Afghanistan, John realises he has a rather strange ablility. He can bring dead things back to life. Teamed with Sherlock Holmes, the two become the crime solvers of the century, but the ability comes with a compromising catch. When Sherlock gets caught up in Moriarty's games, can he use it for bad as well as good?
1. Chapter 1

A gunshot rang out through the sticky silence, echoing off the low wall John had been crouching behind. For a moment, he felt nothing until he looked at his shoulder. Red was leaking out through the hole in his flesh, staining his khaki uniform a deep mix between brown and scarlet. He let out a small cry and fell to his knees, one hand pressed against the wound. "I've been hit" he managed to grunt into his radio through the haze of pain; the blood flowing so thick and fast it was starting to make his head spin. "I repeat I've been hit!" He bit his lip to suppress a scream of terror and agony. He lay there for what felt like an age as all around him his comrades fired; the heady boom of distant artillery fire suddenly sounding so much louder. Snatches of shouted orders reached his ears through the dulling roar of the blood pounding in his head. Orders he should be shouting; someone had taken over for him he realised.

After what seemed like years, he felt hands on his arm pulling him to his feet, his legs being half dragged along the dirt ground as he tried feebly to run; the pain blinding him to all but the crimson pooling out between his fingers.

"Watson! Stay with us; you're going to be just fine" A voice he could hardly recognise called into his ear, shouting over the familiar chopping, rapid thud-thud-thud of turning rotors and the whining of engines that made up the sound of a helicopter coming down to pick them up. He felt himself being pulled up into the open belly of the chopper and let out a feeble moan, eyes pressed tightly closed to avoid the grit getting in. Someone jumped up next to him and gave a shout of confirmation. He felt the jolt as the helicopter lifted again and rose up into the deep, empty blue sky.

"Hush, you're going to be okay, Watson. You're a fighter. You're our _captain_." The voce sounded familiar now. John opened his eyes a crack to see the familiar ice blue eyes set in a tanned face and almost white-blonde, sunbleached hair that belonged to Moran.

"Morphine…in my bag…please." he half gasped between fluttering pants and a sharp sting in his arm signalled the arrival of the drugs. He let his body relax and unconsciousness overtook him, sucking him down into darkness.

London. John limped along as a slow, clinging drizzle trickled from the sky, a dull ache settling itself in his shoulder; it did that in the damp sometimes. A grey overcast sky hung over rain glossed streets and even greyer high rise buildings, the distant rumbling roar of traffic a constant background noise. Somewhere lost in the clouds a passenger jet flew, the engines just a far-off, echoing whine lost in the sea of grey below which it sailed. Somewhere closer a siren sounded, more joining in as some sort of drama unfolded half a mile away. These were the sounds of the city; a track played on endless repeat day after day. London was never silent and John hated it. He yearned for the cloying desert heat of an Afghan summer, the sticky feel of rough material stuck to him by perspiration; the sure and steady feel of gritty dirt under his sturdy desert boots and the reassuring feel of an assault rifle slung across his back. He missed the dry banter between his comrades and the quiet nights with nothing but the stars above and the tedium of yet another patrol in the morning singing him to sleep.

"John!" A voice broke his daze, snapping him back to reality; back to the hard concrete beneath his feet and the thin parka, plaid shirt and old knitted jumper that had replaced his soldier's garb, the slow limping step and hunched back that had taken the place of his surefooted military march and strong, proud posture. "John? John Watson? Is that really you?" Mike Stamford came into view, a smile on his wide, friendly face. They had studied together at St Bart's. Mike was taller now, and fatter. He still spoke with the same slight accent and the smile was the same.

"Mike, hi" John forced a smile back and straightened himself a little.

"I didn't recognise you at first! I thought you were in a desert somewhere getting shot at, what happened?"

"I got shot." John shrugged, wincing.

Mike invited John for a pint and he agreed, and together they found themselves seated in the Criterion. They chatted amiably over their drinks, exchanging stories. Mike was now teaching at St Bart's, and had gotten married.

"Always the family man, eh?" John smiled, "there's me running around Afghanistan shooting people and charging headlong into danger, and you're getting yourself a family!"

Mike laughed and set his glass back on the table. "Oh I missed you, John. Where are you living?"

"In a flat not far from here. It's a bit of a shithole but I can't really do much better." He sighed. "Didn't think I'd miss sandbags and canvas tents but at least it was warm at night!"

Mike nodded emphatically "I think I could help, if you wouldn't mind having a flatmate."

John snorted wrinkled his nose. "Who would want _me_ for a flatmate?"

"You're the second person to say that today!" Mike patted John on the back, smiling. "Don't you worry; I'll get everything sorted." They exchanged numbers and left The Criterion. Mike strode off back in the direction of St Bart's and John limped back to the place he called home.

His life was so normal now, so boring. Something out of the ordinary just _had_ to come along to ruin it. John sat leaning on the rickety desk in his bedroom, knees under his chin and heels resting on the edge of the chair. His face was illuminated by the soft blue-white glow of his laptop. A half-cold mug of tea sat by the laptop, resting atop a book and a sheaf of papers. He stared at the empty blog page Ella had told him to make. 'Document your life' she had said, 'write about what you do, what you see.' He shook his head and slowly typed the words 'Nothing ever happens to me' he sighed and rolled his shoulders with a wince, staring at the flashing carat at the end of the sentence he had just typed. "Nothing ever happens to me" he read aloud, swallowing the painkillers he was still so dependent upon with another sigh. He could never have been more wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning dawned, heralded by a heavy hammering on the windows as the rain battered at it. John woke with a start; the nightmare provoking a wordless shout from his lips. He had been there again; back behind the wall. Bullets flying everywhere, mingling with the grit and sharp smell of gunpowder. He was cradling a comrade in his arms. Willing him to live; but he was gone. He woke just as those eyes had opened and a scream crashed around him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, clearing away the sleep from the corners. He ran a hand through his hair and grunted as he heaved himself out of bed. John's phone buzzed loudly on the small nightstand by his bed. It was a text from Mike. 'Found your flatmate! Meet me at Bart's at 11am.' John keyed in a reply and checked the time. He had two hours. Two hours to wait and see if his life was about to change once more.

The rain had stopped by the time John had reached St Bartholomew's Hospital. He smartened up his old canvas jacket ass much as he could before limping over to Mike. They greeted eachother and started to head down towards the labs.

"He's a strange sort of chap is Sherlock, but I think he'll like you." Mike spoke as they walked.

John raised his eyebrow at that. "I still don't know why anyone with all their sanity would like me."

"You put yourself down too much, John." Mike sighed. "You're a good man."

"Careful; the last person to tell me that got killed." He hadn't meant to sound so curt, but he'd said it now. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

"Ah, here he is." Mike pushed open the door and held it whilst John shuffled across the sterile threshold.

"Bit different from the last time I was down here." John mused aloud as he looked around the room. Computers lined one side, whilst long white worktops bordered the others in a horseshoe shape. Cupboards sat below labelled with the various instruments they contained. Tables were arranged in the middle to provide more workspace. A man stood with his back to them, concentrating on a microscope. He was tall and tentpole-thin, with thick, curly, raven black hair. He was dressed smartly in a pair of black dress-trousers and a burgundy-purple, pressed shirt.

"Sherlock, this is John." Mile leaned on one of the tables as the man, presumably called Sherlock turned to face them.

Sherlock was beautiful, John couldn't deny it. He had ivory pale skin and liquid blue-green eyes that seemed to read him like a book. His face was long, with cheekbones that could pierce the heavens and a stern looking mouth. The shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a slender neck. "Can I use your phone?" He spoke with a baritone purr and seemed to ignore John entirely.

"Sure here-oh, it's dead. Sorry." Mike took his phone out of his pocket and replaced it with a slight frown.

"Here, use mine." John held his phone out and Sherlock took it, cradling it in his long, slender-fingered hands.

"Thanks." Sherlock looked John up and down, eyes seeming to flick across his face down to his shoulders and back and legs. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"What?"

"You heard. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Mike, what have you told him?"

Mike held up his hands in mock surrender. "Nothing!"

John returned his gaze to Sherlock, who was typing away a text on John's phone. "Aghanistan."

"Thought so." Sherlock handed John his phone back and shrugged on a long dark navy trenchcoat and strode to the door, wrapping a lighter blue scarf around his neck, pausing in the doorframe. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Meet me there in an hour. Now I must go; I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." And with that, he was gone.

"Is he always like that?" John slipped his phone, still warm from Sherlock's touch back into his pocket.

"'Fraid so." Mike turned to leave and John sighed. "You going to meet him then?"

John's mouth twitched into a smile. "Yeah. I think my luck might be changing."

The rain had eased by the time John pulled up outside 221b. He stepped out of the cab and looked up at the burgundy awning of 'Speedy's sandwich shop and café', wondering if he'd got the right address.

"John." Sherlock appeared into his field of vision, mouth pulled up into a one-sided smile.

"Mr Holmes," he extended his hand.

"Please, call me Sherlock." Sherlock brushed past him and buzzed the doorbell on the door adjacent to Speedy's.

"Sherlock!" The door opened to reveal a short, older looking woman with an apron on and a smile that stretched across her lined face. "Come in!"

"This is Mrs Hudson" Sherlock gestured to Mrs Hudson, who had retreated further down the narrow hallway to make space for them both.

"John Watson, hi." John nodded with a smile.

"I suppose you want to see the flat?" Mrs Hudson started up the stairs, Sherlock and John following.

The flat was larger than John had expected. The stairs led up onto a narrow landing that opened out at the end into a large living space. A smaller flight of steps led up to what John presumed was a bedroom, with another leading through the ajar door beside it. As he shuffled into the cluttered living space he noticed the large kitchen, with what resembled a makeshift science lab set up on the central table; microscope, titration burettes, conical flasks of unknown substances and stacks of Petri dishes amongst piles of notebooks and pieces of paper. Dishes sat in the sink and all around the living space were more sheets of paper. On the wall hung the skull of what he guessed to be a bison. The lace was chaos, but it felt homely and cosy, and not at all dirty.

"Sherlock, look at the mess you've made!" Mrs Hudson tutted, looking around the room.

"So, what do you think?" Sherlock moved around picking up several sheets of paper and shoving things aside on the desk to make room for the tea.

"There's a room upstairs if you'll be needing two."

"Of course we'll be needing two." John spoke maybe a little too harshly, leaning on his trusted cane.

"Oh, no, don't worry! We've got all sorts 'round here. Mrs Turner next door's got _married ones_! I'll leave you two to get settled. Oh! Sherlock, Lestrade called in earlier. He's got something for you that looks right up your street. He left you that note on the table there, and says you should check your phone more often."

Sherlock laughed at that, a low hearty chuckle as he picked up the note and read it. Mrs Hudson bustled back off downstairs, leaving the two alone.

"Oh, now this _does_ look interesting." He settled himself into the black leather chair opposite the one John had sat himself down in. Sherlock folded his legs underneath him, almost squatting on the seat, the sheet of paper held between his hands and a faint smile playing on his lips. "This is right up my street, very much so indeed."

"What exactly _is_ your street?" John got to his feet and limped over to one of the tall windows that sat either side of the broad mahogany desk at the end of the room. "Hello" he muttered softly as a police car drew up outside. "Er, Sherlock? We've got visitors."

"Oh, that'll be Lestrade. Don't worry, Mrs Hudson will let him up. Looks like I've got work tonight."

"Sherlock?" A voice called down the hallway, followed a few seconds later by a tall, grey haired man dressed smartly in a shirt and plain black trousers. A badge on his jacket marked him as a Detective Inspector for the Metropolitan Police.

"Ah, John, this is DI Lestrade. Lestrade, this is John Watson."

Lestrade nodded at John and John nodded back. "Sherlock, we need you. Will you come?"

"Not in the car. I'll follow behind." Lestrade nodded and left swiftly.

"What do you have to do with the police?" John watched the car pull out and disappear from view.

"I'll explain later. Do you want to come?"

"Come where?"

"Well, you're a soldier aren't you? Seen a lot of violence, seen a lot of death?"

"Yes" John sighed. "Far too much. Enough to last me a lifetime."

"Well, soldier, would you like to see some more?"

John's mouth involuntarily twitched into a smile. "Oh god, yes."


	3. Chapter 3

The taxi drew up into the street as the rain started to drizzle again from the almost perpetual cloud cover that seemed to have made London its home. Sherlock stepped out of the cab, already analysing the outside of the tall redbrick house. Police officers stood by the gate and forensic investigators milled around both outside and inside. Sherlock ducked under the crime scene tape and lifted it for John to pass through, tutting at the churned mud path. "Look at that; I can't get anything from that now they've all trampled over it like a herd of buffalo. Shame, there's a lot you can read from footprints."

"Sherlock, what are we doing here?"

Sherock turned quickly, the bright light from the house and the lamps set all about it illuminating half his face, leaving the other side lost to shadow. A smile played once more on the detective's lips as he spoke in a slightly hushed tone. "There's been a murder, one of three so far. These imbeciles can't figure it out, so it's-"

"It's time for the freak to try to impress us all." A voice broke through Sherlock's sentence and they turned to see a tall woman stalking towards them.

"Ah, Donovan, fancy meeting you here. Now, must dash, can't stand around chatting when there's work to be done. Come on, John."

"Oh lovely you've got yourself a friend? How do you get friends? Did this one follow you home?"

"Not now, Donovan, haven't you got Anderson to be attending to?" Sherlock kept walking, "Ignore her, John and just do what we're here to do."

"What _are_ we here to do?" John ducked under the arm of an officer leaving the house, lifting something over his head and stepped onto the threshold.

Immediately, John felt the change. The air around him felt cold, colder than outside. There was an air of sadness to the house, mixed in with rage and anguish and guilt. John braced himself against the door, mind working furiously to shut the feeling out. He was imagining it, there was no such thing as ghosts. The body upstairs was just that. Just a body. He'd seen plenty of those before.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock moved to his side of the wall and studied his face, calm blue-green eyes scanning John's. "Something's wrong here isn't it? Do you want to go back outside?"

John shook his head, "I want to see what you do."

Sherlock nodded and took John's arm, steering him up the rickety staircase that groaned in protest at every step. "Just follow me and do as I say, got it?"

"Got it"

"Sherlock, glad you could make it. You two, put these on. You know the rules, Sherlock."

"I know, Lestrade. Here, John, we better make ourselves blend in with all the other idiots here."

John had to bite his lip to stifle a laugh as he pulled on the blue plastic one-piece suit and gloves. It felt like wearing a crisp packet.

"Sherlock, be quiet." Lestrade spoke with a tired tone to his voice, and John could imagine that he'd done this many times before. Once they were both ready, Lestrade led them to the body.

"I need everyone out. I can't work with them all swarming in here like flies."

Lestrade sighed and gave the order for everyone to leave the room and soon it was just the four of them left; the body, the detective inspector, Sherlock and John. "Shut up, Lestrade."

"I didn't say-"

"You were thinking, it's annoying."

"Just get on with it would you? That lot outside won't tolerate you here for long."

"Yes, I know, convinced they can do it themselves. You know they won't Lestrade. They never do." He knelt on the floor, pulling a small magnifying lens from his pocket. Slowly and delicately, he moved around the body, inspecting everything. Muttering to himself, he replaced the lens into his pocket and explored with his hands, feeling under the woman's collar, lifting her hand to inspect the ring on her finger. Sherlock straightened up rolled his shoulders.

"Well?" Lestrade prompted, folding his arms across his chest.

"Well, she's not local. She's from Glasgow, or, most likely, Cardiff. She was married, but not happily. There was a second party here at the time she died, and it was them who killed her."

"Fantastic!" John exclaimed, leaning on his cane.

"You think so?" Sherlock grinned over at him.

"How did you get that from…that?"

"Simple, John. Look at her. Her coat is wet-soaked through in fact. The only two places to have rain that heavy in the last 48 hours have been Glasgow and Cardiff. But she has a train ticket in her pocket from Cardiff Central to London Victoria, so obviously she's come from there. As for her marriage, take a look at her ring. It obviously doesn't fit her very well and she took it off multiple times, possibly for a string of lovers, or after the probably many arguments she had with her spouse, or at least twisted it a lot on that finger, because the inside of it is shiny but the outside isn't. The second party walked her in here, maybe even pushed her in here; look, there's a trace of a muddy footprint here, which is too large to be hers. They must have killed her, because no ambulance was called here until the early hours of this morning, when the caretaker found her."

"That is brilliant."

"Do you know you say that out loud?"

"Oh, sorry." John shoved his hands into his pockets.

"No, no it's…it's fine." Sherlock smiled again and fixed his gaze on Lestrade, who had been writing everything Sherlock was saying into his battered looking notebook. "Lestrade, would you mind leaving for a minute?"

"Sherlock, I can't-"

"It will only be for a minute…or five. I can't work with all your thoughts in the room; they're worse then your team!"

"Fine. Five minutes and no more." Lestrade left the room, gently closing the door behind him.

Immediately, Sherlock pulled John down to the floor. "John. Do you remember why I brought you here?"

"…Because you needed a doctor's opinion?"

"Yes, yes there's that, but there's something else. I don't just let any stranger into my life, but I've let you in without you even having to ask. I don't do that for just anyone." He smiled again and gestured to the body. "Touch her."

John reached out and turned the dead woman over. The presence of death was no stranger to him, but this time it was different. There was an energy there, surrounding him, buzzing in the room. It was like he'd walked into a forcefield and it had stuck to him. He took his hand away and the feeling dulled back to just a cold feeling.

"No, like this." Sherlock gook John's hand and placed one on the woman's forehead and the other underneath, cradling it. "I don't know if it'll happen, but we can try."

"Try what?"

"Try and wake her up!"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" But he knew exactly what Sherlock meant. "I can't do that, Sherlock."

"Look at you. You're a hero and you don't even know yet. You were shot, in Afghanistan and you should've died, but you didn't. Something kept you alive, something gave you a purpose. I don't know what, and don't say it was God. It wasn't. I need to know if I'm right-and so do you. You haven't felt right since you woke up. You're haunted; I can see it in your eyes. I read you like a book. You know you're here for a reason-the reason I brought you here. As I said, you're not just anyone. You're John Watson and you can talk to dead people."

John sat still whilst Sherlock spoke, knowing every word was true. As he sat there he could feel something building, that connection he had forged the first time growing stronger and stronger as his heart picked up pace until it was hammering at his ribs like a bird trapped in it's cage. "I can't, Sherlock I can't do it."

"Shh, John, Concentrate." Sherlock waited, his breath held as the energy in the room built up. He could feel it too as the link between John and the woman was forged.

The body gave a shudder, and it carried through to John. Another shudder rippled through the both of them and Sherlock remained still, watching with unhinged interest.

It happened suddenly. The energy seemed to flow from John's hands and the woman's eyes flew open. Her mouth opened but no scream came out, just rapid panting. "Wh-where am I?"

"Hush, it's alright. We're doctors." Sherlock leaned into view. "You're hurt, but don't worry, you'll be fine." John was surprised at how easily the lies slipped through Sherlock's lips.

"But, but he was here! He was going to-oh god oh _god_!"

"Who was here?" John shifted his fingers a little, not moving his hand away lest the connection broke. His mind was screaming at him to stop, that this was wrong and unnatural, but he couldn't break away. They were having a conversation with a corpse and it was weirdly fascinating. "Can you tell us about him at all?"

"..No. I never saw his face. He was just…he was just a _cabbie_!"

"Who? Who brought you here? You came in a cab?" John could feel her slipping, and had to keep her talking.

"The cabbie. He just…I don't know, I don't _know_! I can't…I can't feel my legs."

"Hush, don't move. John's got you safe." Sherlock nodded to him and John understood. One last push for information, and then let her go.

"Can you tell us anything at all?"

"Rachel. You have to tell Rachel. Warn her!"

"Warn her? Warn her about who?"

"About _him_. She'll…she'll know." She shuddered. "I'm so cold…"

"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry for what's happened to you." Sherlock took her hand in his leather gloved hand and squeezed it. "Let her go, John."

John gently eased his hand out from under the woman's head. He felt like he should have said something, but didn't and simply lifted his hand off of her forehead. Quickly, the link was broken and the woman lay still once more.

John got to his feet, shaking from both fatigue and something he couldn't name. "Did…did we just….do that?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. You, John Watson, are amazing. Lestrade!" He called and waited for the detective inspector to re enter the room.

"You done in here yet?"

"Yes, we're finished. You're looking for a serial killer. He's a cabbie, but I couldn't get much more out of her than that. Oh, and you also need to find Rachel. You're looking for someone linked to this woman called Rachel. I'll see you soon, Lestrade. Come to me if you need anything else." And with that he left, John in tow. He paused to exchange a curt nod with Lestrade before vanishing through the door in the wake of the consulting detective who had just become his best friend.


End file.
